


and so peaceful until

by windingwoods



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Secret Samol 2019, mentions of the Anomaly latt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22322899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windingwoods/pseuds/windingwoods
Summary: For a brief, suspended moment, Waxwing’s heart goes careening straight into the pointed ends of her ribs.Sorry, sorry, she can hear it say to her lungs and stomach,we’re renovating the place, I was thinking of putting some flowers near the liver.Or, Waxwing gets a ride to somewhere new.
Relationships: Waxwing/Goldfinch
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Secret Samol 2019





	and so peaceful until

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dumplingsquid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumplingsquid/gifts).



> when i read this prompt i knew i just it was the one i Had to work on. waxwing/goldfinch is such a great ship with a lot of potential so getting to write their hypothetical reunion was lotsa fun!!  
> hope you like it!!!

It starts with a woman nearly running her over with her beat-up Pontiac Fiero. The car is more brown-grey than pristine white, covered in scratches, bumps and dust. Ever the pragmatist, Waxwing thinks it’s kind of a waste, to keep a gem like that in such a state. 

That train of thought gets soon derailed by the driver doing the following set of actions: she throws the car door open, lunges for Waxwing’s wrist (ah, not wearing her seatbelt), somehow manages to _grab it_ and pulls her into the car with her, sending her sprawled half on her lap and half on the passenger seat.

“What the f—”

“Horseshoe crabs,” the woman cuts her off, almost drowned out by the shriek of the tires as the Fiero roars back to life. Waxwing goes still; then, slowly, she crawls all the way into the passenger seat. She fastens her seatbelt with a pointed look at the woman.

“A little bird told me they wanted to take you for a few rounds at the Fair,” is the meagre explanation she gets. “Trust me, funnel cake gets old real fast.”

Because she’s not sure she understood a single word of that, Waxwing says, “So this is your idea of an extraction?”

The woman is silent for a moment. Her grip on the steering wheel tightens by a fraction, something most people wouldn’t even notice. “I was just the closest operative,” she says in the end. “If you’ve got complaints, I’ll get you to Squi… I mean, Hector and Gale soon enough.”

For a brief, suspended moment, Waxwing’s heart goes careening straight into the pointed ends of her ribs. _Sorry, sorry_ , she can hear it say to her lungs and stomach, _we’re renovating the place, I was thinking of putting some flowers near the liver_. 

Then the Fiero takes a sharp bend at over 40mph and the reality of the situation comes crashing back onto her. 

“Puta que te parió,” she says around a mouthful of what she hopes isn’t blood. 

The woman has the nerve to snort. “She wasn’t sure you’d even know it was her.”

“That’s ‘cause she never told me her real fucking name.” There’s a bit too much venom in the words, but Waxwing can’t be bothered to curb it. “Had to learn it from a goddamn painting.”

“Uh, not great.” 

There’s been a black car in the rearview mirror since earlier, but the woman doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it. “By the way, I’m Barker,” she says, “Though I’d rather not go by that anymore, given, um, the circumstances.”

Waxwing stops frowning at the black car and turns to her. “Got any other options in mind?”

A pensive hum, then, “Guess we will find out!” 

***

The first thing Waxwing thinks getting out of the Fiero is that Bluffington Beach has the loudest, most annoying seagulls she’s ever heard. The smell of salt is stronger, too, and the ocean looks a few shades darker. Still murky though. 

“Where have they gone off to…” Not-Barker mumbles behind her, eyes darting across the boardwalk. There’s a tinge of long-suffering exasperation in her posture and not for the first time since they’ve met Waxwing wonders what her deal is, exactly. 

Then she stops wondering.

Standing in front of her, with her hair greyer than she remembers and wearing new glasses, is Goldfinch. For some reason, the sight makes her want to scream; she’s told herself she won’t recriminate, though, so she only waits.

For what, she doesn’t dare to express, but she’s saved once again by Not-Barker. “Ah, there you are! Wait, where’s Hector?”

At the very least, Goldfinch’s voice still sounds the same when she says, “He went… off. Said he got a call from Maggie.” 

One look between the two of them is all Not-Barker needs to read between the lines, so Waxwing watches with a mix of vague horror and gratitude as she says, “Well, guess I’ll go take care of some, um, stuff as well now that I’m done playing courier.”

She starts to walk back towards her car, stopping before getting in and turning towards them one last time. “Oh, by the way! I want more Rupert stories as my driving fee!” 

As she drives off, Goldfinch fixes Waxwing with a bewildered stare. “The Verandas’ fucked up bird?” she asks, apparently disturbed enough by whatever she’s picturing in her head to swear. 

“He’s an outstanding citizen,” Waxwing says, feeling protective of that contraption of an animal for some reason. “Bar— your colleague was kind enough to let me leave a message with him. For the kids.” 

“The _kids_?”

“Just because you fucked off somewhere else it doesn’t mean my life, like, went into cryostasis.” 

Goldfinch winces, like she used to when they were young, and the anger Waxwing’s been clinging to in her absence slips from her fingers. More than anything she wants to take a step closer, so she does.

“They were playing heroes, so I took them in,” she explains. Goldfinch’s brown eyes are as comforting as she remembers them and her knuckles are red from the cold. Slowly, Waxwing rubs her thumbs over them. “I left them the directions for this place, ‘cause they deserved to have a choice, I think. Maybe you’ll meet them.”

There’s something choked in Goldfinch’s “I’d like to,” but neither of them acknowledges it. Instead, they stand by the beach for a while, with the wind whipping their hair around and the seagulls crying in the distance. 

***

When, weeks later, Goldfinch kisses her, it feels almost anticlimactic. There is no grandiose, fateful feelings, no gravity pulling her into orbit, only the comfort of muscle memory. Waxwing’s spent years missing it, though, so she lets herself quiver anyway, fisting her hands into the front of Goldfinch’s sweater. 

They’re birds, they should both be set free, handled with featherlight care, but violence has been tearing through them with glee for as long as she can remember. From the night they met on a wrestling ring, or the first time Waxwing licked the blood off of Goldfinch’s split lip after a job gone south. 

Dazed laughter tickles her ear and the sound makes her go a little lightheaded as well. There’s a stubborn core inside of her, like an apricot seed, that hates it. It rebels against it, hard and rough and rotten with loneliness, but the rest of her goes soft and sweet when Goldfinch says, “You’re still using the same chocolate lip balm.” 

“It’s the last one I’ve got,” Waxwing murmurs. “I hope they sell the same brand here.” 

From where she’s made a nest in the crook of her neck, Goldfinch hums in agreement. Her hair smells of sickly sweet coconut shampoo and her body is warmer than Waxwing could ever remember, but somehow she doesn’t mind. 

Distantly, as she lets her head lull against the weight on her shoulder, she marvels at the strength of small, feeble sprouts. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
